


Burning on Cold

by SpaceOut



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Swearing, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceOut/pseuds/SpaceOut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy Harper was a man of concentrated rage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning on Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Mismatched versions of Roy Harper and rolled into one.  
> A character study by Zoe.  
> This site confuses the hell out of me. Enjoy my ramblings.

 

 

               

 

                Roy Harper was a man of concentrated rage. In moments his rage battled with his conscience, often giving him a headache that would last for days.

                That old saying, _fight fire with fire,_ was one saying that Harper knew well. To keep his rage in tact he fought seemingly endlessly with the crime and horror that filled his city when the lights dimmed in the dead of night. He put that _fire_ into a bottle and forgot to yell _grenade!_  

                Roy had astounding self control for what it was worth. He used this relief to his rage as filler for something possibly even more deadly than a knife fight. For a while, he kept a lid on his fire, with water to douse it, a small bit everyday in hopes to extinguish it.

                He fought scum who threatened to take over his city, leaving his fists bloody and another mark on his record. Some days when he was sure he was going to prison, or _juvie,_ but here, it was all the same.

                For all that he had seen, for all that he had played part in, the world just kept him going on. (A never ending torment that was the equivalent of torture for any decent human.)  So used to pain, he never saw anything but weakness in those who _lived._

He had tried to live so many times before, only for a night at a time. But the ache for the water that doused his flames grew too strong far more often than he'd ever admit. Night after night, he went to save his city, saving men and women from muggings, kidnappers, serial killers, common thieves that the local authorities wouldn't even dare to bother with.

                Not once he asked for anything but a number in a queue line for war, and what a time to be alive with the war never ending.  People in his life tried to hold him back, shackle him to the ground beneath his feet; they never quite realized the backlash he involuntarily had while his fire was held from advancing to the water. If there's no way forward, you start going back.

                When his headache grew too strong, his rage not going anywhere, just sits there, stewing in his pain, his misery, he turns to what he strove to never seek.

                They let him breath, a cool chill racking down his spine as it soothes the burns that go all the way to his core. They let him see, a new clearer lens once the smoke had cleared. They give him solace when the fire rages against his mind, the constant drumming pounding pain reduced to nothing.

                They give him air to breathe as the smoke scars his lungs.

* * *

 

                But when his money goes under so does his life, his eyes sink, his heart hammers, he's itching, craving for something that gave him his air.  By the time he realized he was addicted he was shaking on the floor, covered in sweat and grime.

                He tried, oh god he _tried so hard to stop._ But he _couldn't,_ there was no air to breathe, it was water boarding he may be alive _but why? Why the hell does he have to live with the pain?_

He picked up a bow for the first time when he was being raised by a man of astounding power, before his fire went numb, (still raging, burning, and scarring his body inside and out,) and hell, it was going to be the last thing he held if he had anything to say about it.

                Each time he notched his arrow it was a silent pray to stay sober for another night. Each time that arrow hit its mark it would give him a run of adrenaline that was better than any other addictive substance he's tried. Each time he even _damn strung his bow_ , he felt power, power that he could overcome the awful gnawing _need_ to feel that cool bliss again.

* * *

 

                His eye fell on a hooded figure as he was on his nightly stroll through the slums. This figure held a slim bow in hand, a quiver secured to its back.

                A slow screeching of tires is the last thing he hears, a blurry color of green the last thing he sees, and the hard cold concrete is the last thing he feels before all goes dark.

                A hooded man, a masked voice, an arrow tip in his pocket, he feels a sense of belonging (warm, not burning), and his fingers itch for his bow, instead of syringe. 

                He's left standing at his doorstep wondering _what the hell_ just happened.

* * *

 

Roy trains, using that fire that once brought him to ashes now clears the field. His residual warmth gives him an untapped source of fuel to power his obsession.

Months he trains day after day, for hours on end.

Not for anything of waste, no, he rarely felt that prickling feeling to go back to cold.

Roy Harper would much rather settle for warmth rather than ice or fire.

* * *

 

It lasts for a while, the warmth, it keeps him going. But failure after failure brings the hammer down on his confidence, threatening to push him back under to the fire. He was graced with the presence of the man with the beautiful re-curve, the dark hood, and a smile that helps him feel like family.

Yet while everything seems to be the highest point of his life it strains his mind and body, soon he's lost in a daze of this warmth, too used to the feeling. It was starting to feel hot again. 

He stumbled back to his worst nightmare in a fit of despair.

It was all cold as he was thrown out like a dirty rag once they knew.

Maybe it was just a bit too cold this time around.

* * *

 

 _Perhaps,_ he pondered _, I should be in shock._

He should have vertigo after being thrown around from the burning hot rage, to cold bliss, to caring warm, to merciless Jamestown cold.  

Roy stumbles out to the road and drops to his knees, and prays there be mercy of room temperature in hell. (He didn't want to die no, but his dramatic flair decided that now was the best time.)

The rage that scarred his body, his mind, his spirit takes over one last time in spite of the hooded man as he sends Oliver (a man who he had once thought of family, so easily swayed to think so little of him) a smile.

At that time- he's not sure what happens. It's so quick his mind can't comprehend.

But next moment he's there he smiles. Where there is he isn't sure, but it isn't made of fire, nor frozen with ice- so it's fine.

Maybe fine is all he needs.


End file.
